Tales Unheard
by spindleberried
Summary: Because everyone's tale deserves to be told. Written for the 100 Theme Challenge. First twenty three themes complete. To include the first fifty themes. I do not own the Hunger Games.
1. Destruction

**Destruction** ;; _Theme One: Love_

It is the love that makes this country. It is the love that destroys this country.

When they first created this terror that is aptly named the "Hunger Games", none of us really took it seriously. We were weak and helpless, yes, but the Capitol wasn't much more. However, seeing our children on that fuzzy television screen changed our minds. This was no longer a naïve joke. This was serious, and there was nothing we could do about it.

It would be so much better without love. Without love, we could watch our children kill each other and feel just indifference; emptiness. Love has strings tied to it. With love also comes grief, hate, sadness, and terror that is not your own. Perhaps love is not such a good thing after all. You hear people talking about the magic of love; the accelerated beating of the heart, the warm, fiery feeling that you supposedly get in your stomach. When I hear these words; I hear madness. Complete, utter madness.

I used to hold my son at night; kiss him, tuck him into bed, tell him everything was going to be all right. Which, of course, was a lie. Nothing will ever be all right. Love means lying to the ones you hold dear.

I used to walk my son to school in the mornings. He would be tired from waking so early, but nonetheless bright and cheerful. However, every year there would be two less parents to be seen at school. Two less parents with no child to walk. In fact, they would not only disappear from the school grounds, but from the district all together. If you did see them, the sadness in their eyes is unmistakable. Love means remorse is coming; sooner or later.

I used to make my son dinner in the evenings. When he got home from school, he would always ask what was for dinner. Sometimes there wouldn't even be a dinner, but he wouldn't complain. Sometimes I'd give him my meal to make sure that my growing boy had enough to eat. Love means sacrifice.

I used to love my son. The Hunger Games took him from me, when he was only fifteen. I still cry about it at night. They say crying is for children, but our children don't cry when they're sent to their deaths. Some do, of course. They try not to. I don't. I sob until there are no more tears to fall. I know I am not the only one who does so. We all love our children; we love them with all our hearts. When they are taken away from us, sent to their deaths, we weep. We weep because we are not strong.

Those who say love is a strength are fools. Love is not a strength. Love is a weakness; yet only the parents of the dead realize this.

Love destroys the districts, thus, it destroys us.


	2. Unlucky

**Unlucky** ;; _Theme Two: Light_

It's dark as I am shooting upward through a clear glass tube. I'm certain that twenty-three other unlucky individuals between the ages of twelve and eighteen are doing the same, right as this very moment. I consider closing my eyes and taking deep breaths, but that's for girls. Instead I stare stoically at the glass in front of me, although it wouldn't be much different if I had closed my eyes.

I'm free of makeup. A few nights before I was coated in the stuff, for both my interview and the chariot rides. Now I feel better. First off, makeup is for girls. Second, this is how I want to die. Natural; untouched by the Capitol.

The first light leaks into the tunnel and suddenly I'm surrounded by fresh air, standing on a circular metal plate. I raise my hand to protect my eyes from the blinding glare, but lower it just as quickly as I realize it might be a show of weakness. Instead I gaze expressionlessly at the ground, knowing that the cameras could be trained on me at any moment, broadcasting me across Panem. Besides, I don't want those rays included in my memory. They're almost certainly fake; Gamemaker made. It was gloomy and rainy when my escort woke me up this morning.

The Gong sounds. I sprint for the Cornucopia; hoping that I'll just get lucky. However, luck is not something you can rely on in the Games.

I focus on a bright orange backpack a couple yards away. I know that none of the Careers will be heading for it; they'll be too busy getting the big weapons and large packs. However, just before I'm about to reach it, another tribute grabs it. It's the girl from District Twelve. My fingers curl around one of the straps and I try to tear it from her grip. She has a hard, determined look on her face and simply refuses to let go. I pull harder, knowing that this is probably my only chance to survive. I don't care if the girl dies, if it means I'll survive.

That's when the knife penetrates my back.

The agony at first is blinding, but it's numbed after a few moments when I realize that pain to this measure means I don't have long to live. At least I don't have to endure this for long.

Looking up at the girl, I see that her face is covered in a disgusting mixture of blood and saliva. I realize I must have spit on her when I was hit. Her retreating back is the last thing I see before I die. I will never know who threw the knife that cost me my life.

I know the light isn't fake. This place is sacred, untouched by the Capitol. A finger of light touches my nose. I smile. I realize where I feel safe. It was never home. It's here. No Capitol can hurt me here. This is a place of only light.


	3. Canary

**Canary** ;; _Theme Three: Dark_

It's clammy and cold. The flickering flames of the torches in the brackets gives little light; but they will just have to work with it. Sometimes, when a miner stands up to brush the sweat from his brow, you can see his face; and what a horrible sight it is. Sunken eyes, skin yellowing due to many years in the mines. They remain hunched over, for it hurts their already aching back to stand up straight. The lines in their prematurely-wrinkled faces are gray with coal dust. They endure all this just to bring home a meager dinner for their spouses and children.

The mines do nothing for a person. Any job would be more suitable; the mines in District Twelve are much more dangerous than the ones in District Two. It is not a life I would wish on anyone. A boy or girl turns eighteen. If their names are not called at the Reaping, they will live on to toil underground; wasting their strength and energy just to ensure that they eat a dinner that evening.

Perhaps there's more to a canary than it's signature warning when the air becomes unsafe to breath. Surely the little yellow bird means more than that? Any songbird could be used, it it were just for that purpose. However, the canary's song is the prettiest. It's a glimmer of hope, a flicker of happiness in this dark, damp world. Without this tiny creature, the only thing the miners would have to listen to would be metal on stone, stone on metal. Perhaps the canary fills a hole inside them, a hole that longs for the music of the woods, the melody of the wind.

Together they work, serenaded only by the song of their lonely little canary. Hundreds of years ago, people worked in these very same mines. The little coal they can find is the only thing that keeps their family alive and, saying 'well' would be a bit of a stretch, but fairly healthy. Of course, the merchant families are often much healthier than they are, but never mind that.

They return home each day, eat a tiny meal, and sleep a restless sleep. In the morning they wake up, pull on their specially-made ragged miner's clothes, and walk dispiritedly to the mines, knowing that every expedition could mean the end.

Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne were two children who lost their fathers in a mining accident, the same accident that killed many others. Dozens of miners are killed every year, so the occurrence of the eldest child receiving a medal in the Justice Building isn't unusual.

What nobody realizes is that the Hunger Games don't take place every year. They're taking place all year round, twenty-four seven. Fear is key in these Games. We experience fear every single day. Fear and apprehension rules our lives in this world. We live until the day that little bird stops his tune.

For now, however, our canary is still singing.


	4. Headache

**Headache** ;; _Theme Four: Seeking Solace_

The first time he entered the arena, he felt scared. Not scared-of-the-dark scared, but real scared. It was a terror that welled up inside him, constricting his chest, making it difficult for him to breath. Although the air was pleasantly warm, he began to shiver as the seconds ticked by.

Three days later he was, astonishingly, still alive. He had survived on what little he could find, usually roots and berries, sometimes a squirrel that was stupid enough to wander into one of his sloppily-made traps. What little weight he had gained from the rich Capitol food was gone, and food was slowly running out.

Five days from the start of the Games, and there were six left. Five. Four. Three.

His heart is pounding as he sits, perched as far up the tree as he dares. He clutches the trunk, afraid of falling down into the horror below. Even this high up, the stinging, metallic scent of blood floods his nose. As he watches, the girl from District 4 ruthlessly murders her partner. She pulls her trident from his stomach as his lifeblood surrounds him in a sickeningly large pool. The cannon sounds. She raises her bloody weapon in triumph, and he realizes one thing, and one thing only; _she's coming for him_.

The girl falls asleep beneath his tree. She doesn't know he's there, far above her head, waiting for something, _anything,_ to happen. Slowly, slowly, it dawns on him. It's kill, or be killed.

Carefully, cunningly, he makes his way down the trunk. The night is cool and silent, he can almost hear the apprehensive breaths of his Capitol audience. He has no weapons except his dagger, which he used for skinning and gutting the few squirrels he caught. He pulls it from its sheath, still moving slowly, stealthily.

His foot breaks a branch. She jerks awake, trident already posed, but its too late; he's upon her. The dagger sinks into her chest and the cannon sounds. He couldn't bring himself to give the girl a cruel, painful death, even if she did kill the boy from her district in cold blood.

The trumpets sound and he is announced victor. The hovercraft appears, dropping a ladder to bring him up. Capitol people rush forward to help him, to clean him up for the cameras. As he is dragged away, his head begins to throb.

For the next twenty-seven years, he sits alone on his couch in District 5, ignoring the knocks on the door, staring across the room at the flickering flames in the fireplace. He doesn't need alcohol nor Morphling. He doesn't want to wash the pain away. The headaches remind him that he is still here, and he is still living.

Then the unthinkable happens. He is chosen. Again. He's going back into the Hunger Games, and this time, he's not going to survive.

It's all eerily familiar, as the gong rings out and he dives into the water. The arena is strange, built for District 4 tributes, not people from District 5 like him, but it doesn't matter. He won't be in it for very long.

As he drags himself onto land he knows that he doesn't have much time left. He turns around to see the glistening body of Finnick Odair, the male tribute from District 4, Katniss Everdeen, the tribute who won last year, and a couple others he doesn't recognize. He doesn't have time to brace himself, because the trident is already inches away from his chest. The pain is agonizing, but it's over quickly.

Finally, after all these years, he is content. Because he found solace. Huh, solace in death. Who would have thought.


	5. Chances

**Chances** ;; _Theme Five: Break Away_

_ What are the chances?_

I asked myself the very same question as I made my way towards the Town Square. There I am roped in, like the animals we slaughter. I glimpsed inside a slaughterhouse once, when I was nine. I want to puke every time I remember the pile of bloody carcasses, leaning haphazardly against the scarlet-stained wall. I close my eyes tightly, trying to shake the image from my mind. It doesn't help.

The escort reached his hand into the big glass bowl, fishing around for that one piece of paper, the one person who would be sent to their deaths. It isn't hard to despise your escort. They write the tributes' death sentences with their own bare hands. He pulled the paper out of the bowl and brings it to his eyes. I could see him squinting, trying to make out the name written upon it. _What are the chances?_ I asked myself. _What are the chances?_

He said the name aloud. And it was me.

I walked slowly to the stage. The crowd parted easily. No one wanted anything to do with me. I would be dead within a week, tops. No one wants to touch a dead girl.

The escort made his pompous way to the boy's reaping ball. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking, what are the chances? But I knew it was useless. It's his name that's called. As he limped his way to the stage, I resisted the urge to scream. I remember my mother telling me to never be afraid, because someone will always be watching over me. _No mother_, I thought, the tears starting in my eyes, _there is no one watching out for us. Whatever happens, we're on our own._

I knew I had no chance. My stylist prettied me up as well as she could, but to no avail. There will never be enough concealer to take away my true appearance. I am boring. I'm just another District Ten girl. He, with his crippled foot, will get the sponsors. Usually pity doesn't get you far in the Games, but this is different. He has pity. The girl from District One has admiration. The boy from District Two has fear. I have nothing.

When I'm placed fully into the arena, I have half a mind to jump off my plate and let the land mines end it quickly. If I'm caught by a Career, my death will surely be slow and painful. However, I decide against it. I don't want my family getting my body back in pieces.

The Gong rings, and I'm caught slightly off guard. I sprint towards the Cornucopia, hoping to find something soon so I can run off to safety. Well, I guess I was a little to slow.

Was I not worthy of a show? Were there more poor, helpless tributes to be killed? I'll never know the answer. I felt his hot breath on the back of my neck seconds before he swings his sword. It's fast. I am soon fading away into complete darkness.

He didn't die like I did. He didn't die at the Cornucopia. He didn't die at the Bloodbath. The Careers hunted him down and killed him. Sponsors only get you so far. With his crippled foot, the chances of him getting away were less than zero. I would feel sorry for him, but when you're dead, it's hard to feel anything. In the end, we experienced the same fate. It's not him I hate. It's the Capitol, for doing this to us.

My name is Havana Berkley. I am plain. I am boring. I am a loser. So what? Hundreds have lost. Who has won?

**A/N**;; _Sorry for the lack of updates! This and Theme Four have been difficult for me, but do not fear! I already have ideas for the next couple, so expect an update soon. Oh, one last thing, there's two references in this chapter. One is a movie reference, one is a song reference. Name either or and get a cookie. Name both and get TWO cookies! Good luck!_


	6. Seconds

**Seconds** ;; _Theme Six: Innocence _

Four days. That's how long it's been since I last said goodbye to my beloved daughter. It seems like eternity, but it's only been four days. Ninety-six hours too long.

I watch the ticking clock next to my bed. Normally, I would be up and ready by now, but as it's beginning of the Hunger Games this morning, work is cancelled. I can hear the pots clattering downstairs as my husband, who also has the day off, tries to prepare breakfast with his clumsy hands. My eyes follow the moving second-hand, the dread growing stronger in my despairing heart every time it ticks forward. I close my eyes, but even then I can hear the grandfather clock downstairs strike the hour. I know I have sixty seconds left before my child's death sentence begins.

Although I would rather still be in bed, with my daughter downstairs, helping her father cook, I swing my legs out of bed and make my way slowly downstairs. My eyes on the carpet, I count the steps. _Eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six_. Twenty-five seconds left. _Five, four, three, two, one_. I plop myself down on the couch and turn on the TV. I realize I must have been a little late, because the Gong has already rung and the tributes are off. My husband gives up on his futile attempt to make a meal and joins me on the couch. His warm, muscular arm is placed around my shoulders. I don't want to look, because it's playing live. I'm watching children die through a fuzzy television screen, safe at home with my family. _Well, two-thirds of my family_, I think, wincing at the very thought.

My youngest daughter, the one who's lucky enough not to be eligible for the Games, waddles into the room on her stubby toddler legs. I'd rather her be anywhere, anywhere but here, but she's already on my lap, short arms wrapped around my waist.

As we watch, my daughter sprints towards the Cornucopia. I hold my breath. I know, from years of watching the Hunger Games, that non-Careers almost never survive the Cornucopia. Ever. What has her mentor been teaching her? Oh, that's right. Her mentor's the Morphling addict who won thirty years ago. Tears start in my eyes as the shadow approaches her. She's too busy reaching down to grab a small pack to notice. No. Even if she had realized it, she still would have died.

My husband lets out a dry sob as her body falls to the ground. My eyes are filled with unspilled tears, but my youngest daughter doesn't do anything. She's staring blankly at the TV screen, which is now showing the boy from District One chasing a tiny fourteen-year-old, waving a lethal-looking dagger. I always thought she was too young to understand, but I was wrong. She understands just as well as me and her father. I hold her tightly to my body, rocking her back and forth. She doesn't react, or give any sign that she knows I'm there. She's dead inside.

But then again, aren't we all?

**A/N** ;; _You know how I said I had a good idea for the next few themes? Well, I lied. I forgot about this theme. However, I started racking my brains for an idea and soon came up with...well, this. Hope you like it! The movie reference in the last chapter was M. Night Shyamalan's Signs, with Havana saying that there is no one looking out for us. There were two song references in the last chapter, Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson and U2's Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Did you know that a U2 is also an abbreviation for Umbrella Cockatoo :P? Don't mind me, parrot freak. A cookie goes to _Obiwanlivesforever_ for guessing one of the song references! Yaaay! Please review!_


	7. Trap

**Trap **;; _Theme Seven: Breathe Again_

__Fingers wrapped around a joystick. Joystick tilted forward a fraction of an inch. Boom, boom, boom. The cannon fires thrice. They controlled it too.

A majority of the tributes would be perfectly fine to stay out of the battle, safely tucked away in a little coven, far away from all the other children. Even the Careers wouldn't kill anybody if there was some sort of barrier to stop them, and no reason to murder. They, too, would rid themselves of weapons, carefully concealing them in a shrub nearby, in case a regular creature, like a bear or a wolf, should attack them.

Most places in Panem are not to be feared. The oceanside sports only crabs and salty water that stings the eyes. The swaying orchards of District Eleven could be home to only the contented buzzing of the bees as they worked away at the flowers. District Ten's fields weren't dangerous either; though you could step on a snake if you were just plain unlucky. The Capitol has changed this. They, with their extremely advanced technology, could rid the Districts of their troubles in a blink of an eye. But they don't. Because if they did, it could cause tremendous troubles. And so they wait, holding their breath, waiting for any last wisp of rebellion to be blown away by the wind.

The tributes aren't much different. Although there is not a flicker of movement, anything Gamemaker-made could have gone unnoticed, unnoticed until a second too late. Usually something triggers it. One false step, one fatal mistake; that's all that it takes. That's why they hold their breath.

Gamemakers and tributes are much more alike than we think. One mistake could be the end of both. For the Gamemaker, it could mean execution. A twitch of the hand, caused by apprehensive nerves. His cannon fires. The boy from District One, the handsome one that everyone loved, that everyone wanted to win. The one that had indirectly sworn to give his audience a show. Now that he was dead, the Capitol howled with fury and outrage. The Gamemaker is executed the following afternoon.

The tribute is fast and strong, but none of that matters. Sometimes it comes down to wit and observation. He's well-hidden in a clump of bushes, arrow pointed at the unknowing girl's back. Slowly, stealthily, he creeps out of his hiding place. His right foot is placed directly in front of his left. And that's when the land mine goes off. The girl, who had begun to run as soon as she heard the bushes rustle, is knocked forwards. Terrified, she gets up and looks around just in time to see the pieces of his mangled body float to the ground.

**A/N **;; _I wrote this in about forty-five minutes! Aren't you proud of me? I love it so much; it's probably one of my favorites. Well, that's seven down, ninety-three to go. Oh dear. You know what would help me? A nice little review. It doesn't have to be long, just one or two lines. Come on, you know you want to. I love me reviews._


	8. Orphan

**Orphan** ;; _Theme Eight: Memory_

All my life, I wanted to be important. I wanted to mean something; to myself, to my family, to my friends, to everyone. I thought my brains would get me far in the Games. I thought I would get lucky. But I learned the hard way; the odds weren't in my favor. They were never in my favor.

I never bothered to learn anything about survival, about the Games. Being a tribute seemed like something that would happen to another, not me. I was fourteen when our escort called my name. My name had only been entered three times. My District wasn't rich; there were plenty of kids that had their names entered dozens of times. I was one of the lucky ones, I had never had to take out tesserae. Why was I picked? What had I done to deserve this?

The way she looks at me, it gives me chills. Her red hair frames her sinister-looking face as her glittering green eyes bear into mine, and I quickly look away. I am reminded of a cold, dark winter, five years ago. We had three chickens in October. We only had one then. We were slowly starving to death, our bodies slowly withering from the lack of food. We knew that we only had a few more days until one of us died. And so the knife was prepared. The chicken was to be slaughtered that evening. Then, as I watched, a small figure darted out of the bushes. Its fiery pelt slipped under the ancient chain-link fence. A snap of the creature's jaws later and the chicken lays dead at it's paws. Before I realized what was happening, the fox darts away, dragging the carcass with him.

My baby sister died later that week.

My stylist sits on the floor, chin in his hands, his face screwed up in deep concentration. The prep team is staring at the ground, not wanting to look at me or my stylist. Every once in a while, he glances up at me and shakes his head. Waves of disappointment are flowing off of him. He was hoping for someone with a bit more of a body, something he could actually work with. He was unlucky this year; in fact, he always is. No one from District 5 ever is something he can work with. Suddenly, a picture of a tall, hard-faced woman flashes across my mind's eye. She's shaking her head down at me, just like my stylist is doing now. She's mouthing the words "too clumsy" as she slams the door in my face. I do not have a job. I do not have the money. And without the money, my mother's sickness goes untreated.

The next day her heart stopped beating.

I should have paid better attention to the other tributes. I shouldn't have just focused on my District partner, or that girl from District 12, the one who volunteered for her sister. I should have looked, long and hard, at the others, especially the Careers. There was that Glimmer girl, who was pretty, and that Cato boy, who scared the crap out of me. I learned to watch out for them, but I should have been more careful. I had not yet reached the Cornucopia when the spear penetrated my thigh. I was greeted with excruciating pain, but also confusion. Katniss and Glimmer used the bow and arrow. Cato's weapon was the sword. Then I turned around, and saw the boy from District 1, Glimmer's District partner, running at me, another spear poised and ready to throw. _Oh._

Expect the unexpected; my father used to say to me. Expect the unexpected. I thought I had become good at that. I mean, the unexpected always happened in my life. The fox stealing the chicken. The lady turning me away. I had become very good at 'expecting the unexpected', but he hadn't. One late December afternoon, a blizzard hit. The power was out; the only warmth we could find was in blankets and quilts. A day later, my father passed away. They had always seen him as the strongest, the one who could survive even when my mother and sister didn't. But he didn't, and neither did I. Because the odds weren't in our favor at all.

It was all for nothing. Living while my sister starved, staying healthy while my mother died, and staying warm while my father froze. It all led up to my inevitable death. Now, as the spear enters my heart, I know I am finally at rest. Because now it's all a memory.

**A/N** ;; _Sorry it's so long! Hope you enjoyed it anyway! Please review!_


	9. Daydreamer

**Daydreamer** ;; _Theme Nine: Insanity _

Perhaps it was the silence that drove her crazy. She spent her entire life waiting, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen to show her that she wasn't alone in the world. The response she got was silence. Cold, echoing silence that hurt her ears as well as her heart. She had a weak mind, the silence did nothing for her mental health, and so began this fight against insanity.

She was a quiet girl. She had curly, chin-length black hair and lightly tanned skin, with large, innocent hazel eyes. She didn't say much and didn't do much. In school, she sat by herself, wordlessly doodling on the backside of her paper. She was accepted but not generally acknowledged. A daydreamer, she was a daydreamer, her head full of fluffy white clouds.

Then, when she turned sixteen, she became a tribute in the Hunger Games. None of the Capitol citizens wasted their money betting on her, they had seen the victors; they did not have the petite build and young look of this girl. However, some of the older, wiser District occupants saw something in her. There was something in her eyes, beyond the glazed stare, that was the look of a winner. A ferocity that, if well used, could earn her a trophy and a crown.

The arena was quiet, oh so quiet. She could almost here her heart thumping in her chest as she waited, nestled in a rock pile not far from the Cornucopia. There was only two left, she and the clever boy from District Three. Although he did not have the typical Career's strength or skill, his brains balanced his mediocrity with weapons and such. She closed her eyes tightly, willing the cannon to sound so that she could go home. She hadn't killed anyone yet, and she wanted to stay that way. She didn't want to return a murderer. However, there was no cannon shot. The boy was far too clever to fall into any trap the Gamemakers had set up for him.

He is smart, but not stealthy. She hears him coming when he is but a few yards away. She doesn't know what to do. It's killed, or be killed. You know what she chose.

She doesn't have any weapons, but she can make do with what she has. He knows she's there, she's made no secret of her hiding place. She closes her eyes one more time and throws a stone. It hits him on the side of his head. He turns, ready to duck, but it's no good. She's bombarding him with stones, each about the size of her fist, and he is helpless. It's all over within a couple of minutes. She creeps out of her shelter and lays eyes on her final enemy's body, bruised and broken. That's when she cracks. A look of horror enters her eyes as she stares down at him. The cannon finally fires, but it's too late now. The victor is not victorious. The victor is insane.

When she returns home, she no longer goes to school. She has learned too much already; she doesn't need to know anymore. In fact, she disappears from her district altogether. No smoke rises from her chimney. Her windows remain dark, the curtains drawn tightly. When she does stumble beyond her doors, there is a wild, feral look in her eyes; the true look of a madman. Her hands are balled into fists, hung tensely at her sides. Her once-pretty hair has turned matted and dirty, her overall appearance ragged. Everyone avoids her, taking care to not cross paths with her. She doesn't seem to notice. She doesn't seem to notice anything.

Because when you're mad, the only sound you hear is silence.

**A/N **;; _Yes, it's not my best but I found the more unusual the theme, the easier it is to write. The words didn't really seem to flow for this one. Oh, and the next theme is _Silence_. Why am I telling you this? Well, this is kind of a combination of the two, so I was wondering if I should keep this one as '_Insanity'_ and write another one for _'Silence' _or switch this one to _'Silence' _and write another one for _'Insanity'_? Any help would be appreciated._


	10. Hot Chocolate

**Hot Chocolate** ;; _Theme Ten: Silence_

Perhaps we were lucky. Then again, it depends on the way you look at it. Only seven tributes were killed in the Bloodbath, and in some ways I envy them. They never had to feel the cold; the numbness that I feel now. Since the first day, ten tributes have died. Although I could never know for sure, I was pretty certain that they had died from starvation or frostbite. There was only seven of us left; and we were slowly weakening. The Careers hadn't come after us yet. Even they didn't have the strength to do anything beside make a fire, eat, and melt the snow for water.

I feel his frosty breath on my ear as I try desperately to keep warm. His arms are wrapped around me, boney and cold. Although it doesn't do much I am grateful for his efforts; because I know the lack of heat affects him much more than it does me. The snow falls lightly around us, the beautiful little flakes too perfect for the rest of the scene. Our fire stands out like a bright orange beacon against the white mountainside, but we didn't care. No one was going to come looking for us, and even if they did, it would be a relief to be released from this world of snow and silence.

"I love you," he whispered in my freezing air. "So you say," I murmured back, snuggling deeper into my light sleeping bag. He chuckled softly, his teeth chattering. "I do, though. I will love you till the day that I die.

"May not be much longer, then," I muttered, and he laughed again, hugging me closer to his chest. "Always the pessimist."

I sighed, closing my eyes tightly. "Don't joke. Not funny."

"Sorry," he apologized. "Thought it might make you feel better."

"Only one thing could make me feel better."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Hot chocolate." My mouth floods with saliva just at the thought of the rich, warming liquid. The coffee I had tried in the Capitol had been fine, especially with a bit of honey, but the hot chocolate had been the best. Now that I was stuck in this land of perpetual ice, I wanted nothing better than a steaming mug of the stuff.

"Of course," he muttered, his voice oddly distant. "Hot chocolate would be nice." He looked to the sky, as though expecting something. But nothing came. He sighed. "You'd think that someone would send the poor, lovey-dovey couple a simple cup of cocoa." I shook my head. "The Capitol's not very happy right now, I imagine. All these bloodless deaths." He let out a soft huff. "I suppose we're just two more quiet, boring deaths, aren't we? No reason to send a treat to someone who is going to die just like the others."

"Might as well die together," I murmured, and I felt his icy fingers enclose around my shaking ones. "Might as well die together," he repeated.

In my final moments, I think I hear a gentle 'clunk', that occurs somewhere around my frostbitten feet. But it's followed by only silence. Silence, and falling flakes.

**A/N **;; _Hey! I thought I'd try my hand at romance. I'm usually not a big fan of gushy emotion but I quite liked this. It didn't flow as freely as some of the others but I like how it turned out. How'd you like it? Good? Bad? Awesome? Revolting? Leave a review! I'd love to hear your opinion! Thanks to _Dark Rook_, my newest reviewer, and _Obiwanlivesforever_, who's been there since the beginning. Love you guys, and Happy Thanksgiving! I'm 10% of the way through the challenge! Yippee!_


	11. Hovercraft

**Hovercraft** ;; _Theme Eleven: Blood_

It's hard being a Capitol citizen. Sure, we don't live in fear of ourselves, our family, our friends, or our neighbors dying every year, but we have different problems. Troubles of our own. Our lives aren't easy, like the Districts think they are. We have to be perfect; alike everyone else. Although I had liked my hair's natural color, I had dyed it platinum blonde; for that year's victor had the very same shade. My eyes were an unnaturally deep blue; for that was the trend that year. Being a Capitol citizen is all about fitting in. You don't fit in; you're an outcast. Death isn't a common thing in the Capitol like it is in the Districts, but sometimes you still have to deal with it.

I work with the Hunger Games committee. No, I'm not a Gamemaker, I'm not that important. Nobody really knows I'm there, but yet I am, following the tributes like a deathly shadow, waiting for the cannon to sound. Ah, such dark poetry.

What causes that Mockingjay to cry? What causes that hovercraft to appear, seemingly out of thin air? I do. Well, I help. I'm not actually controlling it, but if I wasn't there, the hovercraft would have no reason to appear.

This year was particularly brutal. What were the Gamemakers thinking, stuffing twenty-four kids into an arena with only a bunch of maces for weapons? Don't get me wrong, I love watching the Games on the somewhat small television tucked into a corner of the hovercraft; but you don't enjoy it as much when each dramatic killing is just another body you have to patch up.

I remember that day clearly. It was four days into the Games, maybe three or five. The only source of time I had was the poor, dead kids who were lifted into my domain. Only eight tributes had died in the Bloodbath, though many more had been severely injured. After watching the showdown at the Cornucopia, I grew queasy at the thought of those wounded tributes; showing up beside me in a couple of days, smelly, pussy, and bloody, their older wounds stinking of infection. Even the thought made me turn green. I remember slowly making progress on the first bodies, my stomach churning as the dead children were ever-so-slowly turned back to their normal, though paler, state. There was nothing I could do to get rid of the look of death that settled over their cold figures.

I dreaded when that cannon sounded. There were ten left; he hadn't even made it to the final eight. I knew his body would be one of the worst, he was never going to go down without a fight, even if it meant dying slowly; painfully. I felt that regular sickening feeling as the hovercraft zoomed towards the place where the body lay. The Careers who had murdered him had fled the scene; all that was left was him and his empty pack. I close my eyes and will myself not to vomit as I lay eyes on his mutilated form. He definitely went through a good beating when his head was finally caved in. I can see the puncture wounds where the spikes met his skin; the bruises where the force of the swing did damage as well as the spikes. His once well-kept brown hair is matted with blood, same with his worn, ratty shirt. I slowly go to work, hoping it will be quick so my eyes can stare at more pleasant sights. To be honest, a bruised, bloody body is not something that I wish to see. I do my job because it makes me money. I need money to survive.

A quick-acting cream here, a skin-graft there. I work swiftly and quietly, my head bent over this tribute's body. From District Eight, I think. I don't remember his name. No, I don't want to remember his name. Remembering his name will only cause guilt that the Capitol is destroying this country, and I am part of it.

I clear my mind and continue to work.


	12. Intelligence

**Intelligence **;; _Theme Twelve: Tears_

We're all connected, somehow. The Capitol created the Hunger Games to destroy the union of the Districts; to wipe out any spark of rebellion left. Unwittingly, they did the opposite. They brought us together through fear, depression, and destruction. It is hard to hate someone who is suffering the same fate as you. Of course, the Careers are a different story, but the rest of the Districts are all right. When a non-Career child kills another tribute, you may hate them at first, but deep down inside you know the poor kid meant no harm; he or she was just trying to return home to their family. You can see the truth in their sad, sad eyes.

It is one thing to make our children kill each other, but it is another thing to make us watch and celebrate each new death. The parties at night, with drinks and snacks and things like that; they mean nothing. They are all fake. We live in a world of pretend.

I am a teacher in District Twelve. I am better off than most in my District, yet my thriving is only skin deep. I have no coal dust under my fingernails. My skin is not yellowing. My back is not bent from years of toil in the mines. Although my appearance is not suffering, the rest of me is. Each year classes like mine are smaller. Each year there are two less kids to learn. Each year there are two more deaths.

Last year, a child was stolen from my class. The day her fate was chosen was cloudy, a slight drizzle falling from the gray sky. I watched from the overhang of a nearby building as Effie Trinket called out the unlucky girl's name.

And it was hers.

Part of me hoped that her brains would help her in the arena, but the other half knew it wasn't worth it. One cannot rely entirely on smarts, one has to be somewhat skilled with a weapon of some kind, whether it is an axe, a spear, or a dagger. Somehow I knew that three days in the training center wasn't going to be enough for her.

When the Gong rang, I closed my eyes. I had seen enough bloodbaths; I had seen enough of my students be ruthlessly murdered within an hour of being in the arena. Now, with her there, along with twenty-three others, I couldn't bear to watch. I sat there, eyes squeezed tightly shut, the television on mute so I could not hear the screams. I knew one of those screams very well could be hers. All I could hear was the steady static of the old television and the beating of my own heart. I willed it to be over soon.

Thinking the initial bloodbath was over, I turned the volume it, opening my eyes. Sure enough, Caesar Flickerman was sitting there, making a couple jokes that made the Capitol audience in the background laugh. I didn't even smile. I was about to know if she survived or not. Finally, the recap of the Cornucopia begins. I cross my fingers so tightly that my hand hurts.

All four from One and Two were safe, go figure. Both from three, the pair of them were killed by the girl from One. The tributes from Four and Five were alive. The girl from Six and the boy from Seven were dead, and the same fate met the tributes from Eight and Nine. The boy from Ten was dead, along with the girl from District Eleven. I muttered a whispered prayer and crossed my fingers even tighter.

And there she was. Her picture. She was dead. Already. She would never come home. I would never see her again.

That's when the tears began to fall.

Over the next few years, I grew accustomed to my new students. But I always kept the desk closest to me unoccupied. For her.

"Ms. Tabb, are you, _crying_?" The voice jolts me from my thoughts. I look up through watery eyes to see Basil Wysor, staring down at me with a concerned look on his face.

"No, Basil," I say, wiping my nose with the end of my sleeve. "Go back to work."


	13. Faces

**Faces** ;; _Theme Thirteen: Sorrow_

There's just the three of us now. The three of us and Dad, though it's like he's not even alive anymore. He just sits in his chair by the fire. There is always a tall glass bottle next to him. He holds it in one hand. The other hand just lays there, limp and floppy. It scares me. It's like a dead man's hand. I don't like to look at it.

He drinks straight from the bottle. Once Linsey tried to give him a glass, so at least he could act somewhat civilized, but he threw the glass against the wall and drained the last of the bottle. That made Linsey cry. Linsey was always so sensitive.

When Mom left, we didn't have much hope. From what Dad told us, she had won her first Games by chance. Dad was afraid we were going to lose the house.

The Reaping had been horrible. Mom had been pulled away from us and we had been forced to join Dad at the back of the crowd. Madras had joined us, a bright smile on her face and two pretty violet ribbons in her hair. She seemed so out of place; then again she wasn't the daughter of a victor. There was no one she knew who was in danger. No. There was no one she _cared_ about who was in danger. She was always a forgetful girl. Or maybe she was just naïve. Either way, she didn't understand the look of helpless terror on my face. It was an expression she was not used to.

It was unreal when her name was called. It felt like I was in a nightmare. I wanted to wake back up as I lunged for her, vaguely aware of Linsey and Marcella doing the very same. I clung to her soft woolen sweater, my tears soaking the thick material. My mother couldn't leave! She had already gone through this once. Wasn't that enough of a punishment, to watch children like yourself die at your already blood-stained hands? It just wasn't fair.

It was horrible. Baby Baize screamed and cried for the mother we couldn't give him. At first, I expected for Dad to pick him up and cradle him, murmuring soft words to calm him. He didn't, though. He just sat there, oblivious to his little boy's piercing screams.

"Marcella!" Linsey had shrieked. "Do something!"

I, though not much older than my sister, _was_ the eldest, and therefore chief caretaker of the family, once my mother was sent to her death and my father finding solace in alcohol.

"Don't yell!" Dad had snarled, and in his drunken haze, had thrown the bottle at Linsey's head. She had ducked, but not quickly enough. A piece of glass had hit her forehead, making a long, shallow gash. I don't think she had comprehended what had happened. What once kind, loving father chucks a glass bottle at his second child?

For the next week, we, that is, Baize, Linsey, and I, stayed up in my room, afraid to cross paths with our father again. Occasionally, my sister or I would sneak down to grab some food and water for us or baby powder for our little brother. Even though there was a television in my room, and a rather large one at that, I preferred not to let my little siblings watch. The only thing that would be broadcasting was the Hunger Games, and they were far too innocent to watch their own mother on that horrible show.

However, sometimes, at night, when Linsey and Baize were both asleep, I'd turn on the TV and watch. Most of the stuff playing was recaps. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of my mom, though most of the time the cameras were trained on either the Careers or those "star-crossed lovers" from last year.

One night, I turned on the television. My breath catches in my throat as I see a face. I'm not sure exactly who it is, but a little caption underneath tells me that it's the District Five male. His face is soon replaced by another man's, the District Six victor. Then his face, too, is replaced. This time, by a woman. One with brown hair and brown eyes. One who looks so much like me.

Then my mother's face disappears.

**A/N** ;; _Hey guys! I'm sososososo sorry for the long wait. I've been so very busy! Anyway, Cecelia has always been an interesting character to me, and I'm sad that she wasn't that important in Catching __Fire. Expect updates to be farther apart from now on, not necessarily this far apart but it will be more than a week's wait. It really depends on how much time I have and what ideas I have for a theme. Reviews are happiness! I'd love it if you reviewed!_


	14. Celebration

**Celebration** ;; _Theme Fourteen: Happiness_

It is a simple thing; to be happy. Everyone has a right to be happy. You don't need to have a reason to be happy. If you have no reason to be sad, then you are happy. There is no emotion in between, no space in between the two feelings. There is just happy and sad. You say you feel no emotion, but you are wrong. You are happy. Happiness is simple. It's something that is easy to be overlooked. Sometimes, it makes you ignorant. Naïve. Just plain stupid. But it's a good thing. You want to be happy. Even if it has its consequences.

Now, picture a scene. A family of five is crowded around a large, high-resolution television set. Another family of four is doing the same a mere few blocks away, but the group of five don't know this. They're too busy watching every move the two people on the screen make to think about anyone else.

The girl on the TV is dark-haired and beautiful. Slim, muscular build, high, defined cheekbones. Her deep, chocolate-brown eyes are narrowed in hatred, defiance, and determination as she circles her opponent, waiting for him to lash out so she can block his blow with the skill that she has demonstrated previously in these Games.

The boy does the same, the look in his eyes cold and calculating. He too is waiting for her to make the first move, so he can run her through like he has done with so many other tributes. A number that is too sickening to mention.

"He killed her yet?" Asks one of the five, who had shut his eyes tightly. All the apprehension was getting to him.

"Well, I dunno. Maybe _opening your eyes_ would help."

"Don't wanna. Just tell me when it's over, okay?"

"You're gonna miss a good show."

The two had volunteered at the same Reaping. Rode to the Capitol together. Charmed the Capitol together. Trained together. Even had been allies, for a while. Then it had all fallen apart. Now, here they were, watching. Waiting.

It was so silent in both households that you could hear a pin drop. If anyone dared to drop one.

"So, it all comes down to this," says the fair-haired boy on the television evenly. "Didn't think you'd make it this far."

"I didn't exactly have you pinned down as a top competitor either," the girl retorts. He growls, a low, terrible sound. Like the one an animal would make. For a moment, a flicker of desperation lights up her beautiful eyes. However, less than a moment later, it is gone.

"You're dead."

With a swift swing of his sword, the battle has begun. With an untrained tribute this move could have easily sliced the stomach, but the girl is quick. With her spear she has blocked the blow, and only a minor dent is left in the wood. The two are very evenly matched, but he's getting frustrated. With each block, he becomes more and more irritated and his moves become sloppier. He wants to get it over with. He wants the victory to be his. He wants to go home. Finally, with all the boiling anger that had filled him as the fight progressed, he brings the blade of his sword down – hard – on the spear, and it cracks in two. She is surprised by the sudden turn of events, just for a moment. But that moment is enough time, and he thrusts the blade into her heart. She stares at him for a moment, and at the gleaming metal stuck in her chest, and then, as if in slow motion, she falls to the ground. Her cannon goes off not long afterwards.

A loud yell of triumph can be heard from the family of five's living room as the boy on screen raises his sword in victory. It is soon joined by other cheers as they celebrate. The parent's son, the two boys' brother, he had won. Finally, they all knew they were happy. They had been before, they just hadn't realized it. They had fine food, fine clothes, a fine house. They were happy, but they needed more. They needed glory. And now it was theirs.

Not far from the celebrating family, a quiet mother turned off the TV. That was it. The whole house was drowned in silence as she looked back upon her two daughters. The youngest's mouth twitched. She then burst into tears.

The mother sighed, her own eyes beginning to fill with salty water. Her family was now permanently reduced to the sad, sad number of four.

**A/N** ;; _Urgh, I feel really...depressing. I mean, the theme is Happiness, yet I somehow manage to fill it with death...I'm truly sorry. But, to be honest, I rather liked this one. I like writing about ignorant people._

_ Anyway, reviews are great. Thanks to all who reviewed so far, it really means a lot._


	15. Sheep

**Sheep**;; _Theme Fifteen: Flower_

Most people don't realize what they have until it's gone. Well, correction, they don't realize the worth of what they have until it's gone. He knew this, and he told himself it wouldn't happen to him. That it would _never_ happen to him.

He wasn't one of those people who had a necessarily hard life, oh no. Sure, his life in District Five sure wasn't perfect; he worked far too hard for his measly pay and could afford many luxuries, but that's a lot better of a life than what most people enjoy. He had never lost someone to the Hunger Games. His cousin had – one of her friends – but he wasn't very close to either of them. In other words, the people drawn in the Reaping each year were nothing more than faces – fluffy white sheep to sacrifice, if you will. Pretty to look at, well, at least when they're bathed and primped and all that good stuff, but really nothing more. He felt for them when they were killed, of course; their families, their friends, but his sympathy had no depth. He didn't really think about what the people close to the tribute must be feeling, and in truth, he didn't really want to.

Naïvety isn't something that fades away with age. They like to deny it, but adults are naïve too. Some pass themselves off as optimists, but in reality that's all naïvety is. Optimism. Sometimes it makes us feel better, yes, but really it's just numbing the pain. Sometimes waiting, watching for that horror in the dark that we know is there, just waiting to strike, is much, much worse than stumbling blindly around in the light, realizing that something bad is lurking somewhere ahead of us but pushing that thought out of our heads until nothing is left but clouds. And rainbows.

The nicest ones call it optimism. The cup-half-empty ones call it naïvety. I call it insanity.

He lived his life blindly. Hating the things we today hate. Waking up in the morning, drinking crappy (yet hard-earned) coffee, going to work, getting home late at night. While others, his neighbors, even, feared having their oldest son, the one who sustained the family, being reaped for murder, he feared stepping on a fire ant and having to deal with the burning and itchiness for an hour or two. Those who had lost someone to the dreaded Games, well, they just didn't understand him, to put it simply. When he complained loudly about only finding one sock out of a pair, they would stay quiet, averting their eyes. A lot of them didn't even wear shoes, let alone socks. If he had known how just plain _stupid_ most of his "problems" sounded, he would have been unbelievably embarrassed. Then, when his daughter was born, all he ever said about her was whining about how the little thing screamed in the dead of night. All the others could think was how lucky he was to still have a daughter.

He should have realized how beautiful his little girl was before it was too late. He should have realized the beauty of the delicate flowers that she brought home each day after school. Just for him. He should have held them to his nose, taken a deep, long breath, and realized how great life was. He should have seen them as more than a bee-magnet. Most importantly, he should have seen how lucky he was, to have a daughter to bring him home flowers.

It wasn't long before her twelfth birthday arrived. Unlike children these days, who wait eagerly for their birthday gifts and cake, she dreaded her "special day". It meant she could be sent to die when the next Reaping came around.

Thankfully, she wasn't chosen that year. Or the next. Or the one after that. However, mere months after his daughter's fifteenth birthday, her name was plucked out of a glass bowl by a manicured hand. The sheep had been chosen. The difference was that, this time around, he didn't see the female District Five tribute as a fluffy, white, innocent creature. She was his _daughter_.

When his daughter's cold, white body arrives home in a wooden box, something clicks inside him. Her cold, glassy eyes stare up at him, and he feels a wave of terror and remorse surge up inside of him, threatening to spill over in one giant flood. He knows she's dead, but yet her voice swirls around him.

_Should've known._

_ Should've known._

It's too much to bear. The wave crashes down in a tsunami of tears. They roll down his face, big, fat, and salty. A couple leak into his mouth as he gasps for breath, but he doesn't care. The briny taste is enough to remind him that he's still alive, and she's not.

_Should've known._

_ Should've known._

There's no one to comfort him. The mother of his daughter, his beautiful little girl, left him long ago.

_ Should've known._

_ Should've known._

He can't hide. He can't hide from them. He leaves her to be buried by her mother. She always liked her best.

People peer out their windows as he walks by, clutching at his coat as more tears splash down onto the sidewalk, but he doesn't see the curious eyes peeking out behind the curtains. When he reaches his home, he stumbles inside, his head beginning to swirl. In a jerky movement, he lunges for the small collection of flowers on the dining room table. The glass vase crashes to the floor, but it's nothing more than noise to him. He grasps the flowers with both hands and holds them tight to his chest. They're wilted and crumbling, but yet he still brings them to his nostrils. The soft fragrance has faded, but to him it is the most wonderful thing in the world.

"You're right, Caria. I should've known."

The next morning, Camden Dyson's body was found dangling from his bathroom ceiling. The strange thing, though, is that grass was found covering the floor under where he hung. The Peacekeepers were flabbergasted by this odd scene. They just couldn't wrap their heads around it.

You see, dear reader, they didn't know that poor Camden was already insane by the time of his death. They didn't know some of his very last thoughts as he prepared for his death.

_ "Grass, yes, grass is what I need. Sheep like grass. Even dead ones. I bet, wherever they are, that they sure are hungry."_

**A/N** ;; _I know this one is rather long, and for a while I was actually thinking of shortening it, but then I realized you needed the full length of it to really get the gist. It's rather dark and twisted, I know, but I actually really like this one. Depressing, yes, but I couldn't resist adding a little humor in there. If you can see where I put in some uncharacteristically-funny stuff, cookie for you. I know it's not too different from the ones I've tried to do in the past, but I'll let you know that I have this really great (or at least new) idea and I think you'll enjoy it, or at least find it interesting. Now I just need to find a theme that it fits under..._


	16. Constellation

**Constellation** ;; _Theme Sixteen: Night_

A lot of people are afraid of the dark. Maybe it's because humans aren't equipped with night vision. To be honest, I think having night vision would destroy the fragile balance we have in this world. Day is time for seeing, for knowing what is coming and preparing for it. Night is time for wondering, for not knowing what is coming and floating in the bliss of ignorance. I prefer night. If you're safe and warm, night is much better than day. With new light, day also brings worry. I don't like to worry, but I do it anyway. Momma calls me a 'worrywart'. It's not a very nice name, but that's what I am.

As I lay on my back, staring upwards through the hole in my ceiling, I watch the twinkling stars and snort to myself. Stars are overrated. They're not even bright enough to be of any use. Those shapes they make in the sky, _constellations_, are just as stupid. I mean, who would be sad enough to look at the midnight blue and say, hey, those four stars are sort of in a line, let's call that Orion's Belt? It's like giving names to some inanimate object. Idiotic.

To me, stars have a different meaning. They're not hope, happiness, or something to "show me the way" or whatever. To me, they're cold, merciless beings who mock us from above. Sort of like those pretty, well-off girls from the better part of the District, who flip their long hair over their shoulder and giggle rudely as you walk past. Seeming to shine brightly yet giving off no warmth nor light.

Even the North Star, which is supposed to lead north, doesn't help. To be honest, I can't even tell which one is which. _"Oh, but Atticus, just look at the one that's shining the brightest."_ Is that right, Diedre? They all look the same to me.

_"See that one over there, Atticus, see the one that's a slightly different color from all the rest?"_

_ "Nope."_

_"Why not, Atticus?"_

_ "Well, Diedre, I just don't. They're all the same color."_

_ "No. No they're not, Atticus. That one's a _different_ color."_

_ "I don't see it."_

_ "Follow my finger, Atticus. See that one, the one I'm pointing at? Daddy says that's Mars."_

_ "Whatever you say, Diedre."_

As annoying as my sister is, I have to pretend like I enjoy our little talks about the night sky. Sometimes I think she acts too young for her age, but she's really a smart kid, I think she's just hiding. Hell, if I had thought of that before it became too late I would have gone the same way. Pretend like I don't know what's going on, pretend like I think the world is a safe, protected place, pretend like everyone is nice and friendly and gets along with each other. Maybe then, over time, I'd begin to believe it, cocoon myself in a shell of warmth and comfort. I could be like Diedre, and forgive the world for all its crimes. And see the beauty in the stars.

**A/N** ;; _Sorry this took soooo long, but I was on vacation for two weeks. Plus, this was a super-hard one to write, to be honest. I must have changed the idea, err, six times, maybe? And changed minor things within those six times. This isn't my favorite, but once I got into it it was really fun to write. Hope you enjoy._


	17. Never Enough

**Never Enough** ;; _Theme Seventeen: Stars_

On the first day of kindergarten, all of the students were asked to come up to the front of the room and introduce themselves to the class. The teacher called each and every one of the little children up in alphabetical order. Benicia Aaker went first, as she always would.

Not yet six, Benicia already had neon green hair and a tattoo of a butterfly on the back of her neck, which she would later get removed, claiming it was "childish". As she strutted past the other desks, her classmates stared at her with awe. This strange, wild girl both entranced and terrified the other kids. Some had pink streaks in their hair, others purple contacts, but none looked as fearsome as Benicia Aaker.

Though the children were supposed to tell the class about themselves, their name, their families, that sort of thing, Benicia never actually said a word. She marched straight up to the giant glowing screen at the front of the room, pressed her pointer finger against the touch-sensitive surface, and spelled out a sentence:

_**MY NAME IS BENNY AND I HATE EVERYONE.**_

When she was finished writing, Benny turned around, scowled at the gawking faces of her classmates and teachers, and slunk back to her seat. Her teacher hurried to continue with the other students, tried to conceal the shock she felt over Benny's written message.

_"She's only a child,"_ she told herself. _"It's not like she's serious. It doesn't mean anything."_

But to Benny, it meant everything. It meant the world. Her name was Benny, and she really did hate everyone. Except for her parents. Benny didn't really know what she felt about them yet. She liked the kisses on her forehead that her mother gave her right before she sent her off to bed, but they were quick and Benny found that her mother often smelled like the sherry she drank. Benny appreciated the times her father took her into his workshop, and she would sit in the corner and breathe in the smell of sawdust and cover her ears when the drills got too loud. Her father rarely talked, but he said he loved her mother and Benny thought it seemed like he loved her too. But when her mother didn't get her that toy that she wanted or her father wouldn't let her touch his saws, that's when Benny felt sure that she hated her parents. But then her mother would get her a lollipop instead and her father would let her sweep up the sawdust into one big pile and then jump into it and Benny didn't know what to feel anymore. It was confusing, all right. Sometimes Benny would lie awake at night, trying to determine what she felt like. She would think, think, and think again until her brain hurt from all this puzzling. To make it easier on herself, Benny just decided she hated her parents. After all, it's not as cool to say:

_**MY NAME IS BENNY AND I HATE EVERYONE.**_

_** EXCEPT MY PARENTS.**_

Fifteen years later, Benny was positive she felt she same way. She felt sure about it now. As she grew older, her mother grew drunker and her father became even more socially withdrawn, spending more and more time in his workshop. He no longer invited his daughter to come along and her mother no longer gave her kisses on the forehead. Then a time came, around Benny's sixteenth birthday, where it seemed they totally forgot about her. There was no longer food put on the table. The fridge stopped working and Benny had to figure out how to fix it herself. On June 21st, Benny came home to find her mother lying on the couch, surrounded by sherry bottles. When she saw her daughter, she screamed and threatened to call the cops for breaking into her house. Two weeks later, Benny moved out.

Now, at twenty-one, Benny was famous, or as she liked to tell herself. She wasn't quite sure where the line between popular and famous was, and, more importantly, wasn't sure if she'd crossed it yet. People knew her, definitely. She'd get recognized on the streets, asked for autographs, pictures. She even got interviewed once, on a TV show. It wasn't Caesar Flickerman, but it was a start. Benny was an actress, she had been on a couple TV shows and even a couple movies. She had never played a main part, but had been several supporting roles and was now more known than she had ever been. It made her feel powerful, having complete strangers know her name. It felt good. She had heard some of her co-stars talk about how it got annoying having to stop and take a picture with some random person on the street every time you went out, but Benny enjoyed it. It felt like someone _cared_.

But Benny felt like she would never reach _real_ fame. The kind where huge crowds chant your name and everything you do, everything you wear becomes a trend. Benny would never know that. Oh, how she yearned for that kind of _real_ fame. It was her biggest wish. However, here in Panem that kind of fame is only reached by having your name pulled out of a Reaping ball and being sent to an arena to fight to the death. And here in the Capitol, that can't even happen.

Benny wondered why she hated what she had now so much. She was famous. She lived in a luxurious apartment and had a giant closet, stuffed full of all the clothes she could ask for. Benny had it all. So why did she cry? Why did she feel so empty?

Of course, the answer is simple, and it comes in the form of eight words that Benicia Aaker said fifteen years ago, the very same words that still hold true today.

_**MY NAME IS BENNY AND I HATE EVERYONE.**_

**A/N** ;; _At least I published this before the six-month mark..._

_ Anyway, this one is weird. The ending might not even make sense, and that's probably because it's eleven at night and I'm slightly delirious. Still, I'm publishing it anyway, because I've been stuck on this stupid theme for almost five friggin months and the lack of creativity flow is driving me absolutely bonkers. It's better just to get this one out and start to work on the next one, yanno?_

_ Which reminds me, I'll be trying really hard to publish more often from now on. Hopefully (maybe) even once a week._

_ Famous last words._

_ P.S. If you haven't seen the movie Mary & Max, you should see it. It's streamable on Netflix ^_^_

_P.P.S. If you're confused because you think this one-shot has nothing to do with the theme whatsoever, I'm truly sorry. Since I've already done a shot on stars (oops) I decided to twist it a bit and use the other definition, that being celebrity. Sorry for any confusion._

_ P.P.P.S. I love you all._


	18. Special

**Special** ;; _Theme Eighteen: Eyes_

Fareeda Florrie loved books. Her family couldn't afford many, but she owned a few and those she did own she read over, and over, and over again. Sometimes, when Fareeda was feeling particularly bold, she would sneak in and steal one from the small old library out in the edges of the district. Fareeda hated stealing, in fact she hated any type of crime, but robbing the library of one small story every once in a while was a small price to pay for the glorious collection of pages.

What Fareeda loved most in books was the magic. She spent most of her time deluged in the words to escape her "other" life where she was pushed around in the hallways of her school and called mean names. Fareeda hated that life, but after a while she became less involved with that Fareeda Florrie and more involved with the gorgeous, smart, and fictional Fareeda Florrie. It started out as a silly thing, just a little game she played in her head. But as she grew older and her bullying grew worse, Fareeda sort of lost her sense of reality. She was two different people, the Fareeda everyone hated, and the Fareeda everyone loved. She would spend hours in her room, staring up at the ceiling, her mind full of dancing visions. She started ditching school to spend more time in her little fantasy world. She even began to skip meals. No one could explain why Fareeda thought the way she did, and no one could find a way to stop it.

When Fareeda was there, when she knew what was going on, she wouldn't talk much. Her parents told the doctor that she would often speak about hating what she looked like.

"My eyes are too average," Fareeda would say. "They are not small enough, nor large enough. They are not blue enough or green enough or brown enough. They are too plain." She would carry on, "the people in my books have either big eyes or small eyes. They either have really blue eyes, really brown eyes, or really green eyes. No one has hazel eyes. No one has medium-sized eyes."

Once Mrs. Florrie came home to find Fareeda with a knife in her hand. Before she could do anything, Fareeda had raised the knife and sliced her own hair off.

"Too average," Fareeda had muttered. "Not long enough. Not short enough. Needs to be special."

Fearing what her daughter might do next, Mrs. Florrie began to bring Fareeda with her wherever she went, thinking that if she was ever left alone she might do something more drastic that cutting her own hair off. She also kept her away from her books, knowing that they were the things that had initially caused Fareeda's "disease" and thinking any further exposure to them would worsen her symptoms. But as much as Mrs. Florrie tried to return her daughter back to normality, Fareeda seemed to be fighting to stay in her little world.

"I need my books!" Fareeda had cried, clawing desperately at her empty bookshelf, tugging at the wooden shelves as though removing them would unearth her beloved books. "_Please_!"

Mrs. Florrie sat on the floor, sobbing with her face in her hands. Nearby she heard a soft thud and knew that Fareeda had collapsed on the floor.

"_I want to die_," she had muttered. "_I wish I could die_."

A year later, Fareeda Florrie stood next to District Seven's escort, shaking, clutching her arms to her chest as though she was afraid they were going to fall off. But Fareeda wasn't scared. She stood there and looked out at the crowd, jaw set, legs stiff. She didn't see her father's stunned face, didn't hear her mother's bawling. As the whole of District Seven watched, a small smile crept across Fareeda Florrie's frozen face, slowly but surely. While her fellow tribute was thinking the awful ways he was going to die, the way his parents were going to cry when he came home in a plain wooden box, there was only one thought running through Fareeda's mind.

_Finally._

In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, Fareeda found herself wearing a thin robe, surrounded by a large lilac-colored woman, two twins who shared the same too-large-for-his-face lips, and an extremely tall, skinny woman with spiky red hair.

"Out of all people, her."

"I know right. They could have at least given us someone with some muscle on her."

"We're better off than Canno. Did you see her District partner?"

"Oh, honestly, Bronx. Stop being so damn cheery all the time. You know she's gonna die in the first ten seconds. I mean, _look at her_!"

They all looked at her. Fareeda looked back.

"Look at her awful haircut. Totally butchered. And it's so short already! By the time we fix it, she'll be practically bald!"

Fareeda's stylist leaned so close to her that she could smell her citrus-flavored gum.

"And her eyes. How boring! Hazel, of all colors! It's not even a real color! It's just an ugly mix of green and brown!"

Fareeda bit her lip in an effort to hold back tears.

"She's not even remotely pretty. All these freckles! _Ugh_!"

She dug her nails into the leather arms of her seat.

"Sorry, doll," the stylist said, though her voice didn't sound apologetic at all, "but it looks like the odds aren't in your favor this year."

Fareeda raised her hand, hesitated for a moment, then brought it across the woman's face, hard. She stumbled back and fell into the arms of the prep team, who looked at Fareeda like she had just committed murder.

Then, without a word, Fareeda got off her chair, blinked, and left the room.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter that her eyes were hazel and medium-sized and her hair was short and badly cut and she had enough freckles to outnumber the stars. Nothing mattered, really. Fareeda thought of the knife she had stolen from dinner, hidden in her assigned room's drawer, and couldn't help but smile. All those years of sneaking books had finally paid off. She was going to end it all, tonight.

Her eyes closed and, for the first time in a long time, Fareeda Florrie felt happy.

**A/N** ;; _I hope I didn't ruin anybody's holidays with this..._

_ And for the record, I don't have anything against people with hazel eyes. I think they're gorgeous! Freckles too, for that matter._

_ And this isn't something to support suicide and suicidal thoughts. Suicide is a very serious topic and everyone should approach it with sensitivity. If you're having suicidal thoughts, please hang on. It may look stormy now, but it can't rain forever._

_ I'm just happy to have gotten this out when I said I would. Thanks for the great reviews y'all. I really appreciate Obiwan and Rook sticking by me ^_^ It means a lot._

_ I'm going to end with a quote from one of my favorite books, The Invention of Hugo Cabret._

_ "I like to imagine that the world is one big machine. You know, machines never have any extra parts. They have the exact number and types of parts they need. So I figure if the entire world is a big machine, I have to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too."_

_-Hugo Cabret, pg 378, __The Invention of Hugo Cabret_


	19. All It Takes

**All It Takes** ;; _Theme Nineteen: Dreams_

A child stands, shivering, surrounded by mines. He faces a hundred yards of hard, dusty ground, baked by the sun, and beyond that, a giant golden horn. Ryland Wyensky, a boy barely twelve, is too young to be staring death in the face. But here he is.

To his left is a much older, stronger boy. He has golden hair cropped short for the Games and a stocky build. The boy does not shiver out of fear like Ryland does, in fact, he seems eager. Ready for the Gong to ring so he can begin to make his way to winning. Winning is the only way he will get out alive. To Ryland, winning is a gateway to his dreams, his plans for the future, but to this boy, winning is all he has. Winning is all he _wants_.

On the other side of the boy is a small girl with broad, muscular shoulders. One of the District Seven tributes. She, like the District One boy, also wants to win, but that is not where her journey ends. She wants to go home so she can share the money with her disabled father, who is no longer able to make a living out of what he does best – chopping trees. The girl wants to repay her father for his struggles to give her the best life possible.

To the left of the girl is another girl. This one is tall and lanky, with a fierce look set into her eyes. She wants to win so she can prove to everyone she is not as pathetic as they say they are. This girl is frequently bullied in her hometown of District Nine, you see, and she thinks this is her only way out.

Then there is the District Four boy, fair-haired and lean-muscled, gazing around at the rest of the tributes, trying to find the rest of the Career pack. The sixteen-year-old wants to win and never eat or see fish for the rest of his life. He is sick of fish. In District Four, everyone eats fish. The poor eat fish. The rich eat fish. This particular tribute hates fish. He hopes that winning will bring him out of the awful fish-every-day diet his middle-class family is on and allow him to eat _real_ food.

The girl next to the District Four boy knows of his silly dream for his future, after she heard him loudly explaining it at lunch. She is staring at him with her eyes narrowed. She doesn't trust him. She's seen him throw spears during training and has seen the glares he's given her. She hopes he doesn't kill her. She hopes nobody kills her, actually. She wants to go home to District Eleven and not climb trees ever again. Her sister once fell from the very top of the tree, and since their family couldn't afford a doctor, she died soon after. The girl feels as though climbing trees is a disrespect to her sister's memory. She wants to pile both her parents and all four siblings into her house in Victor's Village so they will never be unhappy again.

The boy to her left is shaking terribly. He does not want to be here. He knows he will not win. He would give anything to be back in his cozy but admittedly tiny house in District Ten, with the comforting smells of horses and the constant clacking of hooves on the pavement outside. He wants to go home and continue his job as a stablehand, working with the horses for the rest of his life. Maybe even work as a dairy farmer, or a goat herder. _Anything_ but this.

The District Two girl next to the boy has her nose wrinkled. She imagines, even from here, that she can smell the manure scent that always seems to hang around the District Ten tributes. She will kill them first, she thinks, the boy and then the girl. She would kill the girl first, but she wants her to see her slice her District partner's throat and then know she's coming for her next. That would be extremely satisfying. This particular tribute can't wait till she wins. She _will_ win, she's sure of it. She will be a celebrity. Everyone will know her name.

The District Three boy wants to go home and reprogram old computers with his grandfather. The male tribute from District Six looks out at the arena and wishes he had some of his morphine that he had stashed away under his bed. His District partner has closed her eyes and is whispering something under her breath – her last goodbyes. The girl from District Twelve had dreamt about marrying her boyfriend, but she told herself that was never going to happen now. District Four's female tribute wished to go live in the Capitol, if she could make it. Both District Fives had always wanted to raise a family – even though many adults of Panem never had children because of the Games. The second District Nine wanted to become the butcher's apprentice – a bloody job, no doubt, but one that paid good money. District Eleven's mayor's son had always been expected to take his father's place, an idea that he relished. He had once had power, now he was just a helpless pawn on a battlefield of brutality. The boy chosen from District Twelve has forgotten everything; panic has wiped all thoughts from his mind. A quiet buzzing sounds in his ears. _Twenty-seven seconds to go._

District Seven's second tribute is strongly-built and determined. The girl from District One is pretty, like all their tributes seem to be, and poised for the fight. District Eight's female tribute has never been more terrified in her life, even when she almost got her hands caught in one of the gears in a giant machine. The boy from District Two is fierce.

Ryland Wyensky just stands there, as though he is not in a life-or-death situation, as if he is not surrounded by delicate land mines that would explode at the tiniest of pressures, as if he is not being watched by the entire country.

Ryland Wyensky stands and stares at the twenty-three other boys and girls who have been placed in this vast place along with him. He stares and thinks while the time ticks away.

Twenty-four hopes and dreams. Twenty-four people who want to live. Twenty-three who are about to die. Twenty-three who will never reach their goals, never see their dreams come true. It's amazing, really, how quickly dreams can vanish, never to be found again.

One second is all it takes.

**A/N** ;; _Blargh. This is soooo not my best, but it was just...so hard to write! And recently I've been bursting with ideas for everything but this. The original plan for this was a lot awesomer than it turned out, but isn't that always it? Anyway, I'll probably be updating on Sunday evenings from now on, just because I don't have enough time during the week and this way I have the entire weekend to get the newest theme all figured out. Sorry it took so long to get this one out; like I said, lack of creative energy._


	20. Toothpaste

**Toothpaste** ;; _Theme Twenty : Waiting_

Karasi Amberly was never a lucky person. She knew this very well and acknowledged it from time to time but never really complained too much. When something didn't go her way she'd simply shrug her shoulders, sigh, and trudge along. Ever since she was a toddler she noticed she didn't always get what she wanted. Little things, usually, like waking up in the morning and realizing you're all out of toothpaste or your brother used all the hot water before you had a chance to shower, that eventually built up and became one swirling mass of things-that-didn't-go-the-way-you-wanted-them-to. At the end of the day you slip into bed, pull the covers over your head, and think about all this and wonder if the mass is going to be any smaller tomorrow. By the time you finally drift off, somehow the mass feels lighter, a fraction of the size it used to be. When you open your eyes again, in the morning, it seems even lighter. But it's still there. And you walk to the bathroom and find that your parents have neglected to buy more toothpaste and your morning breath is there to stay and the mass starts to build again.

It takes a while, but by Karasi's fifteenth birthday, it had all but taken over her life. A gigantic pyramid of things-that-didn't-go-the-way-she-wanted-them-too sat in the middle of her bedroom, her living room, her kitchen, her street, her classroom, everything pushed aside by tiny occurrences that should be nothing. There were big things too, like Karasi's mother losing her job or her grandfather's death, and they all stacked up, right on top of each other, to tower over everything else. When she fell asleep the weight didn't change, when she woke up the cloud was still as heavy as ever. Maybe it was because things kept going wrong, even while she was asleep. Or maybe it was because she had given up trying to feel better. Maybe she wanted to feel this way, maybe feeling miserable made her feel alive. Whatever the reason, Karasi was unhappy.

But, like anyone who is unhappy, happy, angry, or excited, they are always waiting for something more. Maybe someone else will steal their lunch. Maybe he'll ask her out. Maybe she'll get invited to hang out with them this afternoon.

Or, maybe, she'll get picked for the Hunger Games.

That was her worst fear. Her first thought, each day, was of her name getting plucked out of that glass ball. Against all odds, it would be her, and it would be her whose funeral would be next. Her last thought, each day, was of her last moments. Maybe because of a spear, or a sword, or even starvation.

It was going to happen. Karasi couldn't explain how she knew, but she was certain. With each year passed, the incident grew closer. Each birthday brought more stress, more worry, more fear. She couldn't focus. Her brain whirred with thoughts of arenas and Claudius Templesmith and Cornucopias and blood, forcing out anything else that tried to squirm its way into her head.

For years, she waited. Sat in silence, images rushing through her mind, swirling, contorting, misting over. And while she did, the mass grew bigger, heavier, darker. The things-that-didn't-go-the-way-she-wanted-them-to became everything. When she was dragged from her home, someone very near screaming in a voice she did not recognize, everything was blurred. She was carried into a stone palace that they promised would keep her safe.

But the stone walls couldn't keep her from herself. Karasi Amberly died at age sixteen, with a knife through her chest.

Two weeks later, her name was called at the Reaping.

**A/N** ;; _Short. Don't care. Feel like writing about crazy people because I just watched Girl, Interrupted and it's touching and fantastic but disturbing, which is, essentially, the Hunger Games as well. This took a long time because, first, my external hard drive, which I keep virtually everything on, crashed, and it took forever to recover everything. I went to the Hunger Games midnight premiere with a couple friends, looking for inspiration. Didn't get anything except a killer headache the next day, __even though the movie was really good. Went on vacation, and I came back about a week ago. Also my cat, who I've had literally all my life, recently died, which I've been pretty upset about. We're getting her ashes back soon and I don't burst into tears every time I think about it so I'm doing pretty well, I think. I hope to be updating more often because I tend to write more when I feel depressed and I'm certainly feeling depressed right now. I'm 1/5 of the way through with this challenge and I'm feeling particularly excited and inspired. Expect new chapters soon._

_ **Famous last words, eh?**_


	21. What Goes Around

**What Goes Around** ;; _Theme Twenty One : Sacrifice_

She was one of the few people who stood with confidence, standing tall, chin up, perfect, shining smile painted on perfect features. She glided around like some sort of princess, poised flawlessly atop six-inch black heels with little pink bows studded with rhinestones. According to the District's standards, Arani was not rich, but her middle-class family gave her enough to get by on. After all, she didn't _need_ much. There were many people who needed much more. Take her best friend, for example. Kamella _needed_ a boyfriend much more than she did. She was not as tall as Arani, nor as slim, and her hair tended to get greasy towards the end of the day. Let her date Istvan. Let her be the one by his side, holding his hand. Arani did not _need_ him. At the end of the day, it was the sacrifice for her best friend's happiness that made her feel good, not Istvan.

Let Linci wear that pretty silver dress to the dance. Let her little brother have the last soufflé. Arani could find another dress, make another soufflé. It was nice being generous and making sacrifices. Knowing that they owed her one was _only_ a bonus.

"What goes around comes around," she would tell herself, "good things happen to good people."

And yes, they do. The very best people get the very best. However, motive can change the way you look at the world. It can also change the way the world looks at you.

The day Arani was herded from the Justice Building into the train, she had never felt better. There were people taking pictures, asking for autographs, screaming her name. She waved, smiled, and looked at her District partner, also waving and smiling. _He's pretty attractive_, she thought, _it could be worse_.

Lajos was his name. He was eighteen as well, but had dropped out of school in his eighth year to start training for the Games. The more Arani looked at him, she felt lighter. She was nothing more than a feather caught in the wind. It was all falling into place.

"It's perfect," she sang, spinning alone in her compartment, soft auburn hair flying out behind her. She giggled, laughing at the perpetually swirling ceiling above her. "It's perfect. He's perfect."

_"I'm perfect."_

She stumbled upon her bed. For a moment she lay, breathless, staring up at the bright lights above.

"I can't wait," she murmured, smiling. The room was still spinning. She closed her eyes, the trace of a grin still plastered on her perfect lips. Though the ceiling had ceased to swirl underneath her eyelids, the mattress still swayed softly. Within moments the gentle movement had lulled her to sleep.

Arani was spinning again. Around and around she went, alone in the middle of a vast room with a high ceiling and swirling chandeliers. She was laughing again. _ It's all so wonderful_, she thought, but as soon as the very idea had flitted into her mind, it vanished. All of the sudden, her mind filled with intense fear. Arani's fingers grasped behind her and she knew that she was falling, down, down, down, hands stretching, reaching, desperate, but touching only darkness. Her laughter changed to a scream. She shut her eyes, willing for it to be over with, wanting it to end. A pair of rough hands caught her shoulder, hoisting her up, up, back from the darkness, back from the fear. She opened her eyes and her gaze fell upon the face of Lajos, handsome, strong, loving.

"You saved me," she whispered, and with that, Lajos vanished.

Arani opened her eyes. There was no one, nothing but the mist and the jagged rocks, jutting out from the hard ground every few meters. Cold, still, merciless. Someone was breathing nearby, sharp, ragged breaths. Someone was moving to the left. No, to the right. Behind. Forward.

Arani fell to the ground, tears leaking from her eyes. Nothing moved. Whoever it was was still breathing.

"Please don't," she whispered. "Please."

The breathing came closer. A hand rested on her shoulder, then pulled her to her feet. Arani did little to resist.

"You didn't even try," said a voice in her ear. "You had no strategy. You weren't prepared."

"You never meant to save me."

"That's cruel, Arani. You can't blame me for this."

She puts her hands to her face. The tears are coming faster now, streaming down her face. She tastes salt on her lips.

"I-I didn't want this, Lajos."

"None of us did, but this is the way it has to be."

"Why? I d-don't understand w-why."

"It's just the way it is."

She pushes him away. "It can't be. I don't w-want to d-die. I want to go h-h-home."

The boy sighs. "I'm sorry."

Again, Arani slides to the ground and sobs, head on her knees. Lajos doesn't move. He is listening, trying to concentrate over the noise of his District partner's weeping. When he finally hears what he has been waiting for, he runs, taking Arani's abandoned supplies with him.

Out of the mist, the Careers advance.

**A/N** ;; _I actually wrote this like a week ago, but I didn't get around to uploading it until now. Family stuff, yeah. Anyway, it's a good thing I did, because it's time for the annual Cram Slam, brought to you by teachers across America. Those lovely weeks where your teachers realize they are only halfway through the curriculum and think it's possible that you will be able to cover everything you should have learned from January till now. Thus all my creativity has been sucked dry and it hurts to think. Still think I'm the procrastinator?_


	22. Bluebeard

**Bluebeard** ;; _Theme Twenty Two : Fairytale_

Looking back, I wish I would've died.

I could have, you know. If the arrow had gone awry a mere few inches and struck me instead of that District 11 girl, she might be in my place. If the branch that I had been sitting on hadn't fallen on the the District 2 boy, I would be dead, not him. There are numerous other occasions where the odds have been in my favor, but I don't feel as though they are in my favor now. Maybe they never were, maybe this was all just a trick.

Maybe the clock struck twelve.

It would probably be for the best. If I had "passed on", I mean. I'm not much better off now. Snow seems to control my every move. One half of me is _me_, and the other half is someone else. She has my dirty blonde hair, my poo-colored eyes, my hawk nose, my worm lips, but she is not me. Her brain belongs to another person. I'm not sure if it is Snow, or maybe one of his followers, or maybe somebody completely new, and evil.

I've been thinking of ways I could get out of this mess. I could kill myself, yes. I have always thought of taking some of the sleeping pills Mother hides away in the back of her bathroom cabinet. She thinks we don't know of them but oh, we do. Before I won, Mother always struggled with insomnia. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, my brothers and I would awaken to her muffled sobbing over her unfulfilled desperate desire to rest. She doesn't cry anymore. With the money I won, she buys herself things that we had never been able to afford, sleeping pills included. She tries her best to hide it, but all three of us see. We all hear the unmistakable clatter of the capsules falling into her hand. We all hear the water run, splash into a cup, and the swallow. We all notice that she never wakes up before nine in the morning. And sometimes, if we're lucky, we see the bright blue drugs in her hand.

I could take her pills. It would be nice, falling asleep and never waking up again. Peaceful. I could even take the entire bottle. Drink it. But then Mother would be forced back into insomnia again, I would be dead, and then Hideaki would have to comfort Farren again when Mother's crying upsets him, and we all know that Hideaki sucks at comforting.

And so I'm trapped. I'm stuck with Farren and Hideaki and Mother and Snow and every single vile, disgusting human being he sends me to please. I should be happy. I should be glad I'm alive. I should be living life to the fullest. I have everything I should need. I had everything given to me, then everything taken away, and now I have everything back and more. This is some twisted fairytale, and some maniac wrote me in as the long lost princess in the big house, with the gold, the clothes, the exquisite life. But he also wrote in the bloody magic key. And the locked door along with the forbidden closet. He or she wrote in the blood pooling on the floor and the blood smeared on the walls and the blood dripping from all around. He wrote in the terror. The insanity. He wrote in the curiosity and longing for whatever was behind that door, the grisly scene, and the desperation in trying to clean the key.

But there is no key. There is no door, there is no forbidden closet. There is no blood except for that pounding in my ears. However, there is terror. There is insanity. There is desperation.

His hands are cold and I flinch when they touch me. He is gruff, wrinkled, and hairy. He is at least three times my age, if not more. But I am used to being sent to older men, the ugly, creepy ones that either can't find a girlfriend their own age or just can't be bothered. He is nothing new. There is no key or locked door or a room blanketed in gore. It's the same as always. So why can I feel the metal teeth against my palm? Why do my finger curl around the cool bronze of a doorknob as if it is actually there? Why do I tremble with fear as if the reddish-brown color coating the walls really exists?

Because it does. The key, the door, the blood, they are all there. They fill my mind and my body. I am the key, the door, and the blood. They are not real, yet they are. They represent everything Snow has forced me into. The key represents everything I've tried to erase, stamped on my forehead like some horrible tattoo. The door is everything that I could have. The room is everything the world has become.

The story of Bluebeard lives inside of me. It breathes when I breathe. Its heart beats along with mine. As much as I might bite, claw, kick, punch, or scream, it will not leave. I am the sisters, the brothers, the key, the door, the blood, the house, the gold, and even Bluebeard. I am a monster.

And we cannot escape ourselves.

**A/N** ;; _This probably made no sense to you if you have not read Bluebeard. It's a French fairytale, I believe, and I accidentally stumbled upon it when I was quite young, around 10 or so. The version I read had pictures include. Needless to say, I was scarred for life. I had nightmares about it. I have no idea why anybody would want to include this story in a children's collection of fairytales. I am seriously baffled by it._

_ Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry this took so long. I've been on vacation after vacation these past few weeks, but I hope to get another one (or more) of these in before I leave in early July for three weeks. And maybe I'll be motivated enough to make a cover. I don't know. I'm not very good at artsy stuff, and I've been gone for long enough that the new updates are kind of freaking me out. Hopefully I'll get used to it all soon. How do you like the new thingimabobs?_


	23. Human

**Human** ;; _Theme Twenty Three : Magic_

Here, there is more color than I have ever seen before in my life. Colors that I didn't even know existed. Colors with no name. This is nothing like back home. Their greens are bright and vibrant like poisonous snakes; there is no green like the grass that grew between the cracks of the pavement back in the District, no green like my mother's eyes. There is no brown except for what is left of bare skin, not covered by clothes, as would be expected, but with bright, swirling tattoos, tattoos that seem to change shape to the drumming of my heart. There is the blue of the sky, but their sky is swirled with dark gray instead of white. I don't like it here. They look at me like I am a lamb with two heads (I saw one in one of their magazines.) I feel filthy and unwelcome. A woman passes by me walking on stilts, or at least I think they are stilts until I see yellow-painted toenails poking out of the bottom of her snappy orange jumpsuit and I realize she has no stilts at all. A young boy runs past, chasing after his mother with a face like a porcelain doll.

I shudder.

My father told me this would be a place of which I could have only dreamed, but instead this is a place of nightmares. I feel like the earth is spinning, very fast, beneath my feet. I open my mouth and find that I cannot breathe. You don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?

He takes my hand and smiles down at me with his familiar yellow and crooked teeth. I never thought they were yellow and crooked before. This place, with all of its surgically-implemented "perfection", has gone to my brain already. I shake my head as to clear it of insects that don't really exist.

"Isn't it great?" He says to me, in a loud voice that registers quiet in all of the commotion around us. "This is exactly what we needed. A fresh start, eh?" His eyes lock with mine. They seem an incredibly boring shade of blue, and I realize a little too late that my matching pair must seem that way too. I try to wear an expression that is not light-hearted, but kind enough so that I will not hurt his feelings.

"I hate it," I say, softly but clearly. "I want to go home."

He laughs and shakes his head a fraction of an inch from side to side. "You're insane."

I hold my ground. "You're insane if you want to stay here," I whisper, in a voice that I hope is fierce. A girl about my age with cat whiskers turns to glare at me. "Look at them," I say, in a lower tone, "they're not ..._human_."

He exhales deeply. "It's magical. Don't you see it? It's technology. It's the evolution of our race. Its so, so, so beautiful. I feel so _alive_."

I don't believe him. There is magic in a grassy hill covered with wildflowers in the heat of the summer. There is magic in bare branches heavy with snow and foxes brilliantly contrasted against the winter landscape. There is magic in old, old buildings and in churches and in a clear blue sky and in a crackling fire. There is magic in the cold, clear river and in the moss on the rocks on the bank. There is magic in having enough food to eat. There is magic in hope. I don't know what this is, but it is not magic. This is anything but magic. I feel a cold, fluttering sensation in my stomach.

"If you really believe that, then you are already dead."

**A/N** ;; _HEY, I'M NOT DEAD! The reason it took me so long for me to get this out was because high school sucks. Yeah. Namely, my English teacher. She sucks the most. In a week alone, I had to write an analysis of a book, prepare an oral presentation, study for the final, and write an essay. Boo. I probably could've written this over winter break or even a weekend but the truth is, I was extremely lacking in motivation and I was even thinking about quitting. But then I remembered how I hate quitting things and wrote this in about an hour. Needless to say, its not my best work, but it's been over six months and I can always go back and edit it later. Thank y'all for everything and I'm so, so, so sorry it took this long._


End file.
